


lemon boy

by echotalia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Based on a Cavetown Song, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Spark Stiles Stilinski, gratuitous food descriptions, no beta we die like men, this is entirely because im angsty and love stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-08-26 10:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echotalia/pseuds/echotalia
Summary: "Yeah, you heard me. Fae. Living across the street. Also in my backyard. They make good food and lemon pastries and I like them, Scott, so back the fuck off.”Stiles gets new neighbors, and with them come a whirlwind of magic, new possibilities, acceptance, and, of course, lots and lots of baked goods.based on the cavetown song, lemon boy(updates sporadically, because i am a busy child with adhd)





	1. like a good neighbor (it's not state farm)

**Author's Note:**

> uh, so this is my first published work, i guess? please treat me kindly, i don't know what i'm doing either. i love stiles a lot and i love reading 'stiles gets pushed out of the pack' fics so...  
> my own personal tribute to the genre, i suppose.

 

 

Stiles isn’t stupid.

 

His test grades say so, sure, but for some reason, people always seem to think that he doesn’t know _people_. Maybe it's because he's spazzy and tends to go off into tangents, but

 

And he might be a bit oblivious, he’s not _blind_. Especially when it comes to Scott.

 

Especially, for some reason (paranoia? weird attraction? who knows), when it comes to Derek.

 

So, yeah, maybe he doesn’t have his life together at all. Maybe he doesn’t have insane wolfy senses and what’s probably the most intense fetish for scarves in the world. It still kind of hurts when he finds out that Isaac was the one Scott picked to go track down the flighty couple. It hurts when Derek doesn’t tell him about pack meetings, and he has to find out from _Lydia_ , of all people, to deign to drop little scraps of information for him to scrabble after, because she’s apparently good enough for the pack even though they’re both human, just because she’s dating Jackson.

 

Which is another thing altogether.

 

Because while Jackson’s a jackass (haha he’s a fucking _wordsmith_ look at him go), Stiles doesn’t really know how to feel about the whole thing where he was a kanima then he wasn’t he was just dead then he wasn’t dead but a werewolf and now he’s in a pack that Stiles isn’t even sure he’s in, so why the hell is he worrying about it in the first place?

 

Kismet, he’s sure.

 

Meanwhile, Peter’s busy lurking around, all ‘I’m-definitely-better-now-that-I’m-undead’, and Derek is just as growly as before, enough to make Stiles mutter sarcastic comments under his breath like “Oh yeah, leave the soft squishy human out of the loop, that always works out so well in the movies,” and “Wow, _werewolves_ showing _emotions_? Tell me the sky isn’t turning magenta and pigs aren’t flying.” Those always earned him a snarl and a “Shut up, Stiles”, which he’s practically grown immune to, not that it had ever really worked in the first place.

 

But honestly he can’t really focus on homework, so instead, Stiles directs his attention at the symbol he’s been staring at for ages and his computer, which is wonderful but has so far proven useless in the search.

 

“Stiles,” the Sheriff, decked out in full uniform, knocks on his door. He glances up, fingers never seizing from drumming against the wood of his table. “I’m heading out. I’ll be back before morning, alright kiddo?”

 

Stiles pretends to smile. It doesn’t work, but Sheriff nods and leaves anyway. On a whim, he gets up just in time to watch the Sheriff’s cruiser flash past and swing around the corner. For a long moment, he stands there at the kitchen window, watching nothing.

 

Movement catches his eye, and he glances up to see a U-Haul truck pull out of the old Vickrey house that had been abandoned after the elderly couple went to some community home in SoCal. It’s a two-story, which wasn’t super rare in Beacon Hills, but it definitely was more expensive than the Stilinski house. The driveway slopes upwards, and the yard is lush and green. A fancy black fence, the kind that usually trims rich people’s gardens, separates the yard from the sidewalk and the neighbors.

 

There’s a girl standing in the middle of the front yard, facing the house, head tilted up to observe the balcony. She has long, straight black hair that falls to her hips, shiny enough that it reflects the sunlight. There’s a squirming feeling in his stomach, and he wonders, because that only happens when he touches mountain ash.

 

She turns around and sees Stiles, and winks.

 

Flushing, Stiles drops away from the window and tries not to die of mortification. New neighbors, and he’s displayed stalkerish behavior that _normally doesn’t happen this is unusual behavior even for_ him _okay_. He wishes he could disappear for a few years. The Norwegian forests seem pretty hospitable, this time of year.

 

A knock on his door, three hours later, startles Stiles out of his desk chair and onto the floor, his earbuds a tangle of wire threatening to choke him and/or yank his laptop onto the floor with him. He lays there, face squished against the carpet for a moment, before he remembers why he had startled in the first place.

 

Stiles opens the door to find a Tupperware of brownies shoved under his nose.

 

“Hello,” the new girl greets cheerfully. “I’m Xiaolong. You can call me Drey, though.”

 

“Drey?” is all Stiles manages as he takes the Tupperware robotically. He cracks the lid open, and the rich scent of fudge wafts out.

 

“That’s me,” she nodded. “My brother and I are living in the house across,” she added. There’s something of a faint accent in her voice, but he can’t place it to any one language. “Enjoy the brownies!” she chirps, and walks away.

 

After a moment, Stiles eats one of the brownies. They’re still hot, even though he can’t feel any heat through the Tupperware. 

 

It’s really good, and something in him settles.

 

~

 

Stiles sees Isaac in the grocery store and tries to keep his head down. Isaac smells Stiles before he sees him, because werewolf senses are creepy as hell, and he snarls softly at him as he passes, but they don’t exchange words otherwise. He’s glad his dad is on the other end of the aisle, looking at bread, because this is the first time in a while that they’ve been able to spend time together, father-and-son, and he didn’t really feel like getting that ruined by some pissy wolf with a scarf fetish.

 

(But seriously, what was up with that?)

 

~

 

A week after the new neighbors moved in, their house had turned from a vaguely creepy but otherwise ordinary mid-to-upper class cookie-cutter house into a _fairy garden_.

 

Seriously. 

 

There are rows of sunflowers on one corner, bright and towering over passerby. Roses wind around the tall fence, and honeysuckle crawls up the walls and onto the roof overhang. There are overflows of wisteria, pale purple like the lavender that lined the house itself, spilling over the balcony to hang heavy over the porch.

 

Stiles is pretty sure there’s some kind of magic water, or maybe just really good fertilizer that’s at work here. Every time he passes by, he feels the squirming feeling in his stomach again, and thinks _magic_ , but never lingers on the thought. There’s enough on his mind already concerning the supernatural.

 

Also for some reason, Stiles finds a gift at his doorstep every day. The first two came with signed notes: a carton of eggs, still cold despite the fact that he had no clue when it had been put on his porch; and half of a lemon pound cake with white glaze that makes melts in his mouth, soft and sweet. The cake is heavy, and the taste of sugar and lemons linger even after he licks his fingers clean.

 

The sticky notes that accompanied them had little Japanese kaomojis, and they were signed by Drey and someone named Haku, who Stiles assumes is the aforementioned brother. After that, the notes aren’t signed, but he knew who the gifts are from anyway. None of the sticky notes are the traditional pale yellow, but rather an assortment of colours and shapes. There’s one that’s purple and shaped like a firework tucked under the cup of hot chocolate despite the weather being over 90 that day, and a black-and-white Snoopy one slapped on top of a plate of caramel-fudge cookies.

 

Of course, he nearly drops the entire plate onto his questionably clean carpet when he goes up and finds Peter lounging on his bed like a male model, reading a gigantic tome with age-yellowed pages and faded ink.

 

“Jesus!” Stiles manages to catch the cookies, but one of them still breaks on the floor and crumbs shower his socked feet. “Dammit- Peter! Get the hell out of my house! What’re you even doing here? Don’t you have, like, an evil lair to scheme in or something?” he yelps, putting the cookies on his table before he drops any more of them and tries to sweep up the crumbs on the floor. Peter raises an eyebrow, looking amused. He closes the book, and his dark eyes sweep over Stiles and land on the plate of cookies, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring briefly, but doesn’t comment the way Stiles expects him to.

 

“My, Stiles, you wound me. I’d almost think you weren’t pleased to see me,” he purrs, because he’s a creeper. Stiles says as much, and Peter grins. He looks younger when he does, like a cocky college senior or something, not an undead werewolf. “I’m here to offer my services,” he adds when it’s clear Stiles isn’t going to react beyond that. His words  are plenty suggestive, but his tone and the faint crinkles around his eyes are innocent, so Stiles sits on the bed next to Peter and nods at the book in his hands, choosing to ignore Peter's baiting.

 

“What’s that?”

 

Peter, for a brief, delicious moment, looks surprised, and Stiles relishes the few seconds before composure slides smoothly back into place and Peter just looks amused again.

 

“It’s a bestiary,” Peter replies, for once not dodging the question or stringing Stiles around. “An encyclopedia of mystical beings, including werewolves and kanimas. This was the family copy,” he says, tracing a long finger down the gold-embossed spine of the book. Distantly, Stiles is vaguely reminded of the _Monster Book of Monsters_ from Harry Potter and dismisses the thought immediately. He doesn't mention how the book survived the fire, and Stiles wants to ask, but before he can, Peter turns to him.

 

“I’d like to give it to you,” Peter says, and holds out the book for Stiles to take.

 

He knows better than to just take it though. Everything has a price, especially when it comes to Peter Hale. “Why?”

 

The werewolf doesn’t look surprised this time, and looks down at the book. There’s a wolf on the cover, pressed into the dark leather and traced with thin streaks of gold. It’s howling at a moon-sun symbol that’s lined in silver. He hopes it’s not actual silver and gold.

 

“My brother-in-law was the one who used it the most. He was human, you know. But he loved to read through each page. He’d always say to know thy enemy, but it was always more than that. It was a fascination, a respect that made Talia have him lead ambassador parties, writing the treaties.” Peter takes in a long slow breath that doesn’t shake, but if he had an ounce less control, Stiles thinks it would have. “I want you to have it.”

 

There’s something almost _nervous_ in Peter’s low voice, and that-

 

That makes Stiles take the book. It’s heavy, and strangely warm. He wonders how Peter’s brother-in-law handled it. Wonders if it was reverent, careful; or more like how Stiles treats his books: with comfort, casual handling that has him falling asleep with it on his chest and leaving crumbs between the books, but always dusting them out and wiping it down with a kitchen cloth to make sure most of the damage is gone.

 

Stiles bites into his cookie thoughtfully, and then, after a moment, offers one to Peter. Just one, though, he’s not _that_ nice and he made Stiles drop one anyway. Peter takes it with a smirk, looking almost exactly like his normal self, but it’s the difference that makes Stiles touch Peter’s wrist and thank him before he leaves, sliding out his window like some secret paramour Stiles is hiding from his estranged husband or something.

 

 

Stiles shakes his head and puts the bestiary on his bedside table. He’ll look through it later. For now, he’ll just sort out his thoughts, and the strange tide of emotions he’s feeling towards Peter, undead and all.

 

~ 

 

When the doorbell rings ten minutes after his dad leaves for the morning, Stiles doesn’t hesitate to leap up and open the door. Sure enough, Drey is standing there, holding a flower pot full of soil and a rubbery-looking thing wrapped around her shoulders.

 

“What the hell,” is the first thing out of his mouth, and then, “Come on in.”

 

“Like, do you think I’m starving or something?” Stiles blurts out, “Because you’ve given me a lot of food the past week and it’s not that I’m not grateful or anything, because those cookies were heaven to smell and ambrosia to the tastebuds, like mm-mm good, and I might be a high-school teenager but I do know how to cook and stuff. Just not anything fancy, like French or anything, just like normal stuff, y’know?” He only stops talking because he runs out of breath. Fortunately, Drey doesn’t even look the tiniest put off. She just smiles faintly and nods.

 

“Yeah, I know. But it’s something of a...tradition, y’know, to let you know we mean no harm, and to win your approval.”

 

“Win...wait, if anything, you should be winning my dad’s, and I promise you, none of those delicious baked goods made it to him, seriously.”

 

“Oh, no, they were for you. Like I said, it’s something of...tradition.” Again with the weird emphasis.

 

The rubber scarf-thing moves, and Stiles nearly leaps out of his skin when he realizes it’s a snake.

 

“This is Kookie,” she tells him and runs a long, knobbly finger down the snake’s scaly back. The snake shifts again, and stops moving. Stiles stares for a long moment.

 

“Here,” she adds, thrusting the white-painted flowerpot into his arms. It’s heavier than Stiles expected, and he nearly drops it, fumbling it just in time before it hit the ground. Drey waits for him to steady and places a white packet of seeds on top.

 

“Here, plant these. The bees like it.”

 

“The bees.”

 

He really hopes this wasn’t a Nick Cage movie. Nick Cage is a gift, but that movie was _awful_. Also he'd rather not have a reverse-bee-bonnet on his head any time soon.

 

“Yes,” Drey smiles faintly, all perfect skin and light dimples. “The bees are good. If you ever see an injured or downed bee, just give them some honey water and they’ll be on their way, okay?”

 

“Uh, is this like a climate change campaign thing? Because like it is an issue but I don’t know how muffins and cookies affects it other than consuming more fossil fuels and,” Stiles is cut off because Drey bursts out laughing, and touches his arm like she wants to smack him playfully but he’s carrying something heavy and she doesn’t want him to drop it, and that, that’s making something in his chest go tight and warm like a cramp even though he’s pretty sure that’s not what’s happening.

 

“No,” she giggles out, “No, it’s just, um, advice,” Drey grins and tilts her head sheepishly, and he can’t help but grin back. “Also, if there are any weeds, just pull them out by their tops, okay? You might find some weird ones around here.”

 

Drey’s still kind of ridiculous and not-real herself, but Stiles doesn’t really mind it very much. It kinda fits, with his neverending babbling and her absolute out-of-context-ness. He waves goodbye to her and goes to put the flowerpot in his room.

 

~

 

The next day he finds five lemon cake-pops standing upright in a little cup with a flower drawn on it in marker. There’s a R2-D2 sticky note on it, with a Star-Wars pun written in purple ink. He puts it with the other notes in the first drawer in his desk upstairs.

 

He hums through a mouthful of cake as he types in _triskelion_ into the search bar.

 

~

 

The little seeds he pats on top of the soil sprout immediately after he plants them, all pale green and delicate little triangle stems. Stiles almost forgets to water them twice, but manages to drive back and get to school on time. As soon as they get tall enough to sway when he passes by, Stiles picks up the flower pot and brings it outside.

 

It’s been a while since he stepped outside, nearly three days now, and apparently opening his window isn’t enough for his eyes to adjust in the bright sunlight. The backyard is a mess, completely covered in weeds and dried-up tufts of sad-looking grass. Stiles looks down at the small plants in his arms. They’re a stark contrast of budding life.

 

Sighing, Stiles rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

 

~

 

Stiles realizes, nearly three hours later, that he probably should have put on sunscreen. Or worn a hat. Gardening hats, with the little flap in the back to cover the neck, which, coincidentally, or maybe not so, is where he’s burning up. He kinda gets why the flap would be there in the first place, even though they look pretty dorky.

 

Still, burnt neck (and arms, and calves, and nose, and ears...) and all, he’s managed to clear out the entire yard of spikey, bristly, tough weeds. The dead grass almost looks purposeful, now.

 

“Sorry, buddy,” he tells his flowerpot-plant. “Looks like you’ll be in there for a while.” It sways in the wind.

 

Stiles trims the grass, even digs out the spiderwebby bag of fertilizer from the back of the garage and fertilizes the lawn. There’s still some left over, so he brings the loud fertilizer-dispenser to the front with his flowerpot-plant to do that part too.

 

He’s taking a break after half the lawn is done, resting on the porch to try and return to a less jittery state of mind with the fertilizer-dispenser’s incessant clacking still ringing in his head when Drey comes over from across the street with two tall glasses of lemonade. They’re still frosty with condensation, and there’s even a little slice of lemon wedged onto the rim of the glass and hilariously oversized twisty straws. His is pink and orange, and he feels about ten when he uses it.

 

They sit in silence, on the cool concrete of the porch, with the shade of the nearby trees protecting them from the blazing sun.

 

Neither of them speak even as they slurp up the last of the lemonade noisily, but Stiles doesn’t mind the noise. Drey takes his glass and hands him something with a wink before trotting off.

 

He looks down at his hands. It’s a pair of earplugs. He grins and puts them on.

 

~

 

Scott texts him that night, rambling in a flurry of texts that nearly send his phone buzzing off the edge of the table about _Oh my god Stiles Allison she said this and then she looked so good doing that and then she touched my arm shes perfect Allison is my soulmate i dont wanna sound cheesy but she really is Stiles im sure of it._

 

Stiles doesn’t bother replying.

 

Instead, he checks the soil of his flowerpot-plant -- which, by the way, he needs to name. All good plants had names -- and waters it because it’s drier than he likes. Then he starts printing out his finalized research notes because he is on _top_ of things, dammit. Someone needs to make a shrine. A Stiles-shrine.

 

Stiles pauses for a moment, and then starts looking up different types of shrines. Because why not.

 

~

 

There’s a weed in the backyard.

 

There’s a weed, and he’s ready to scream because he _just weeded dammit_ and his neck burns and itches like some sadistically cheerful reminder of all the labour he put into the yard yesterday. Like, wholesome labour. Labour you could slap a sticker on and call it the 1930s on a farm and there are cows everywhere. Labour like nothing this yard had ever seen before. Enough labour to make Labour Day all about him, even. Speaking of him, did Stiles remember to take his Adderall? He can’t remember.

 

And honestly, thinking about it makes him want to scratch his sunburn more, so he he just marches over and gives the weed a sharp tug.

 

There’s a yelp of pain, and the weed retreats into the ground like a meerkat into its little hole. Stiles stares, mouth agape.

 

“What the _fuck_.”

 

~

 

After the weed incident, he decides to go get groceries. Some normalcy would be nice after whatever the _fuck_ happened back there in the yard. And they’re running low on goat’s cheese and garbanzo beans, so he texts Dad and locks up. Stiles waves at Drey, who’s pruning the honeysuckle, as he cranks on the radio in the Jeep.

 

In the store, he sees Derek. Because of course he does.

 

Maybe he should change grocery stores, because this one is clearly plagued by flickering fluorescents and grumpy wolves.

 

...Nah, this one is close to home and always has Red Vines on sale.

 

Sighing, Stiles prepares himself for the worst.

 

It doesn’t happen. Instead, Derek, all grumpy eyebrows and the leather jacket that’s just a little too long on the sleeves, rolls his cart over (which, by the way, what a trip: Big Bad Alpha, pushing around a shopping cart with a squeaky wheel) and leans over. Stiles can smell the diluted aftershave on him -- diluted, because werewolves can’t handle the lightest scents of cologne, but none of the wolves actually want to stand out and stink up the room with their supernatural BO or whatever. Derek kind of smells woodsy, like pine and tree bark after a rain, which is an avenue he actually doesn’t want to venture down today, thank you very much, especially not in a mostly-empty grocery store aisle in front of the off-brand cereals.

 

“Jackson picked up a scent trail yesterday. It lead into the Preserve.” Derek then clams up so fast Stiles wonders for a moment if he has lockjaw or something.

 

“Uh, okay? Cool?” He’s not really sure what to do with this. As far as he knows, he is only ever useful when he’s researching or chaining Scott to his radiator, and even that’s pushing it. Stiles is confused at this sudden release of info, but he’s mostly just confused about Derek, who is scowling so hard Stiles half-expects him to wolf out right here in the grocery store in the cereal aisle. Distract him, maybe? “Uh, I finished the research notes. On the swirly thingy. The symbol. Did you know it’s called a triskelion? It’s based off of a Celtic symbol -- iconographic, I think -- and usually dictates the ownership of a pack or tribe, which, creepy, right? I mean, if the Al-”

 

Derek rolls his eyes and slaps his hand over Stiles’ mouth, which, _rude, hello?_ and growls, “Shut up, Stiles.” But he’d like to think it’s a little more fond than it used to be. Before he can embarrass himself further, Teri who works at the store comes by with a gigantic crate of Life cereal and smiles at Stiles. Derek rolls his eyes again when Stiles waves awkwardly back and walks away.

 

Stiles sighs. Werewolves, man.

 


	2. Free Drinks and Spiderwebs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tries to figure out what to do, and grows closer to the local cryptid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unbeta'd. ive updated the tags to match, so all mistakes are very much mine.

The weed is back. It’s back, and it looks like it’s about to rain, so Stiles goes over. He’s like sixty percent certain that it’s magic, or something else supernatural and he’s so done with everything. He’d stayed up all night again, the consequence of taking five too many pills of Adderall (relax, it wasn’t _really_ that many, probably), and had blinked awake at 4:13, eyes crusted shut and neck screaming at the way he was slumped over his laptop, which had either gone to sleep or died from low battery. He hadn’t checked, just closed it and curled up on the floor next to his bed to go back to sleep.

 

When he’s a few feet away from the tall weed, it twitches apprehensively, but doesn’t disappear like it did last time.

 

“Listen,” he says to the weed, like a _crazy person_ , and sits down criss-cross-applesauce on the grass next to it. The weed sways nervously. There are tiny white blooms near the top, and he wonders what kind of weed it is.

 

“Listen, I’m gonna leave you here for now,” he tells it. “If you start spreading, we will have problems. _Mucho_ problems. Because I just broke my back yesterday getting all the other weeds out, and while I’m not exactly happy about this, it sounded like I hurt you yesterday. So. I’m sorry. For hurting you, that is. If I did.”

 

The weed sways a bit harder, enough that it brushes against his hand where it was slung over his bent knee. For some reason, it makes Stiles smile a bit, because there’s no wind, and sure, sentient weeds are definitely weird, but certainly not the craziest thing he’s come across in Beacon Hills.

 

“Alright,” he says, half to himself, half to the plant, and pats the dirt a few times before getting up to watch Criminal Minds on his laptop. He kinda deserves it, he thinks.

 

~

 

The next day, he goes over to Scott’s, but it’s awkward. Scott goes off on tangents about Allison and Isaac and Erica and Boyd and how “Derek thinks he’s all macho- _whatever_ , and he keeps acting like everything I say and do is the biggest annoyance in the world, y’know?” Stiles just nods, because he _does_ know, but Scott just barrels on.

 

“And all I want is for him to take me seriously, right? So I was all, ‘Derek, we’re pack right?’ and he gave me a _look_ , god, Stiles, that look just reminded me of Dad, y’know?”

 

And Stiles gets it, there’s a _lot_ going on in Scott’s life. He does get it. It’s just, it’s just he wishes he could think about his own problems and share _his_ troubles to his best friend.

 

Finally, Scott seems to run out of steam, and looks at Stiles. His brow furrows into an all-too-familiar puppy frown of concern. It’s the same look he gives Melissa when she’s late coming home and stressed, the same look he and Stiles share when the Sheriff has one too many drinks at night.

 

“Hey, buddy, you okay? You’re kinda…quiet, I guess.”

 

For a moment, Stiles wants to open his mouth and rant. He wants to tell Scott about how his father is distant at best, and accusatory and downright cruel at worst. He wants to tell him about how Derek is acting weird, and that Peter trusted him with an old Hale heirloom. He wants to confide in Scott about how his new neighbors are kind and he thinks that they’re most likely some kind of supernatural creature, or at least have ties with the supernatural. He wants to ask about the Alpha pack, and how he’s worried about Erica and Boyd, because it’s been a long time, and they still haven’t been found. He wants to tell him about how his sprinklers are broken and _god_ he’s not looking forward to another year of school, and _man_ vacation seems to be going too slow and too fast all at once, right?

 

But then he remembers how Scott hung up on him in the pool, how he went behind everyone’s backs to make a deal with _Gerard_ , the same guy who beat the stuffing out of Stiles. How he got so hung up in his own little problems that he couldn’t deign to notice the most basic things about Stiles, his best friend since forever.

 

“Nah, I’m just tired,” Stiles says, with a strained smile. “Look, it’s getting kinda late; I’mma head back to make dinner, alright?”

 

Scott still looks concerned, but all Stiles can feel is muted anger and _why couldn’t he think of being concerned earlier, when it_ mattered? Still, he can’t quite bring himself to speak up, and just laughs awkwardly as he collects his stuff and waves goodbye to Scott.

 

He’ll think about it later, he swears. But.

 

Just not now.

 

~

 

When he gets home, the Sheriff is there, in the dining room, with a vast spread of files laid out in front of him.

 

“Hi Dad,” Stiles greets. “I’ll get dinner ready.” The Sheriff nods absently, making a murmuring noise that’s a greeting and acknowledgement all in one, but he doesn’t look up.

 

Great.

 

Stiles moves to the kitchen, pretending like his gut isn’t clenching and there’s not a lump in the back of his throat that was always a prelude to tears. It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s got this.

 

~

 

There’s been strange activity lately. The police have taken notice, because really, it would be disappointing if they didn’t notice the people stumbling out of alleyways, bewildered and lost, with puncture marks healing on the backs of their necks. They babble about red eyes and something so grotesque it can’t possibly be human, and Beacon Hills is beginning to fester with fear.

 

Stiles is alone, isolated in the midst of this chaos. Scott invites him to a pack meeting as an afterthought. He cites chores as a way of ditching, and waters the lawn, because the sprinklers are broken. Peter texts him updates, (magically getting his number, somehow) and doesn’t ask where he is.

 

He is not missed.

 

~

 

He wakes up with a start.

 

It’s only around 3 in the morning, but he knows he won’t get any more sleep after this. So he rolls out of bed. It’s cold, colder than usual. The floor burns under his sleep-warmed feet, and every little noise and groan of the house settling is sharp and as loud as a firecracker or Erica’s screams as Gerard turns up the voltage and kicks Stiles out of the way. He turns on the coffee pot, desperate for a sense of reality and _here_ ness.

 

He drinks his first cup black, which isn’t all that great for his ADHD, and then brings the second cup with two sugars (also not great for his ADHD) up to his room. He boots up his laptop, and for a moment, he just stares at the bright screen, eager for respite of the creeping, claustrophobic shadows in the house.

 

After an hour of absently scrolling through his half-written essays and topic requests, Stiles sends off an essay on the nucleosynthesis of stars to some desperate college student in USC, who replies with a thank-you email that looks like the writer had been sobbing with gratitude and a deposit of $300 in his bank account. He grins. Maybe he’ll buy a steak for dinner today.

 

It’s still too early to go to the store, though. Hell, it’s still too early to be awake. But every time he closes his eyes, something crawls insect-like down his spine, and sleep is startled away, a feral, frightened animal shying from every sudden movement.

 

It’s cloudy today, the pre-dawn light significantly dimmed by the heavy, solemn clouds. He leaves a note for his father on the kitchen counter next to the coffee machine, puts on a hoodie, and goes outside with only his keys.

 

The air is crisp and cool, with the promise of rain carried by the early morning breeze. The neighborhood is silent. Nobody is up this early, especially during the summer. Even the businessmen and women stay at home for just a little longer, relishing the coolness before getting ready for work.

 

Stiles walks slowly. There’s no rush here, no goal. He’s not trying to exercise, or escape a feral Peter. He’s just clearing his head. As he passes under the sunflowers that tower over the tall black fence of Drey’s house, the round golden heads turn to follow him, like silent spectators. He doesn’t really know how to react to that, so he just awkwardly bobs his head a little, like a greeting, and carries on.

 

There’s a hum in the air, turning the damp, dewy air into something _electrifying_ . Stiles walks and walks, and finds himself on the edge of the Preserve without realizing it. For a moment, he’s so startled he forgets to ignore the humming, and in an instant, the trees and pine needles under his feet are all he can see and feel, and there’s a voice; no, voices, hundreds of voices whispering, telling him secrets, secrets he _needs_ to know, if only he’d _listen-_

 

“Stiles?”

 

He’s dragged back to reality so abruptly he stumbles, even though he’d been standing still perfectly fine a moment ago. He turns and finds Drey there. She’s in an oversized black hoodie with thick pink strings and pink bows on the sides. In dainty cursive embroidery, the upper right corner reads, _Fuck off_.

 

“…Drey?” Stiles finally responds. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, like he’d been asleep for hours and only just woke up.

 

“I saw you walking. Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” he says automatically. Drey blinks, but doesn’t call him out on his obvious lie.

 

“Nice day, right?” she says instead. “Feels like rain.”

 

“Talking about the weather? Classy, but a cop-out nonetheless,” he retorts. Drey grins sardonically, and they begin walking into the Preserve in silent unison.

 

“True. But it is going to rain. Soon.” Stiles doesn’t disagree. It certainly feels like it will. As dry as the year has been, it’s unusually humid. Even the brown needles under his sneakers don’t crunch as loudly. The sky rumbles distantly.

 

Drey suddenly points to one of the trees, and drags him over.

 

“Look!”

 

Stretched between the weather-scored trunk and a crooked branch, a gossamer spider-web glistens, heavy with dew, in the dim light. The spider itself is curled near the top, blending in neatly with the branch. The web is almost unreal, like a photograph, unbroken by passing animals or trapped insects.

 

“Did you know? In Ancient China, on Girl’s Day, young girls would put a spider in a box. The next day, if the spider had made a well-formed web, the girl has proven to have a good mind and future.” She turns to Stiles. “Imagine that. A spider dictating someone’s ‘worth’. Is such a thing possible?”

 

Stiles didn’t know, but before he can reply, a drop of water lands on his cheek, tear-like. He looks up. It had started drizzling, sometime while they were talking.

 

“Hey, it’s starting to rain. Should we head back?” he says. Straightening up, Drey offers him a crooked smile.

 

“Yeah. You wanna hang out somewhere? Get coffee?”

 

Stiles paused. “Are…Are you asking me out?”

 

“As friends, yes.”

 

If it were him at the beginning of freshman year, he definitely would have felt differently. A girl, asking him out? A pipe dream.

 

But now, he just felt warm with the fact that Drey did, in fact, consider them friends.

 

“Sure.”

 

~

 

They head to a cafe on the edges of the downtown area. The rain wasn’t really heavy enough to warrant an umbrella, and since they both have hoods, they make it to the cafe only slightly damp.

 

It’s warm, almost too warm. They must’ve turned on the heat, and the stark relief between the outside temperature and the inside makes him almost dizzy. It’s almost empty; nobody really must have stuck around after it started raining, despite the cold. The pale gold lighting barely cuts through the haze of summer-sleepiness and warm-wet fog drawn in every time the door opens, like a bellows, or a heaving set of lungs.

 

“What’re you gonna order?” she asks.

 

“Uh, something sweet, I think. But no caffeine.” Drey nods and steps up to the cashier.

 

“I’ll take a mango-passionfruit smoothie and a strawberries-and-peach smoothie,” she says after glancing at Stiles to make sure he’s okay with her order, and pulls out her wallet.

 

“Hey, wait, no, I’ll pay for my drink,” Stiles tries, but when he reaches for his wallet, he realizes it’s still in his room, where he’d left it next to his phone. “Fuck. Okay, well, I’ll pay you back, okay?”

 

Drey raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest. “Alright, if you insist.”

 

As they collect their drinks and head to a table near the windows, Stiles spots the news bulletin. Erica and Boyd’s ‘MISSING’ posters are the top-most signs, with mugshots of both of them in colour. They look like criminals on the run, not werewolf teenagers.

 

“You know them?” Drey asks.

 

“Huh? Oh,” Stiles nods, “They’re my…friends, I guess.”

 

Examining him with dark eyes, Drey purses her lips and sips her smoothie. “Hm. Well, do you have any idea where they are? Or where they might be?”

 

Actually, Stiles had thought about it. He’s looked up places that could possibly hold a couple of teenage werewolves, because logic says that if the Alpha Pack really wants something from Derek and the pack, they’ll want to keep their hostages close enough to be reached easily but far away enough that they can’t be stumbled upon by accident.

 

Stiles had stolen one of the city-wide maps from his dad, along with one including areas just outside city limits.

 

So the abandoned warehouses near the south-side, the old bank in the east, the ancient bar that got shut down due to maintenance issues, and the probably-haunted community center that nobody uses anymore are the spots that Stiles would bet his money on.

 

But he doesn’t know which one it could be. If he were to go in, guns blazing, there was no guarantee he’d even find them, much less be able to break them out without a problem. So, instead, Stiles is left, useless and unimportant, with information he has no clue how to share.

 

“Stiles?” Drey asks. He startles.

 

“Huh? Oh. Sorry. Uh, maybe I shouldn’t have had so much sugar, right?” he laughs nervously. Drey gives his barely-touched peach drink a pointed look. Stiles circles his wrist with his middle finger and thumb and twists. “…Sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to apologize twice,” Drey says bluntly. It’s somehow reassuring. “Hey, do you want to look for them? Your ‘friends’?”

 

Stiles stares.

 

“I could help you.” Her eyes seem to glow in the sunlight-bright gold of the lighting, thrumming with an unspeakable power that he can _taste_ , like raspberry soda bubbles dancing on the tip of his tongue and the back of his throat. “I can, if you really want me to.”

 

Help him? He doesn’t even know if that’s possible, at this point. He’s lost, a useless, flailing speck of _human_ in an ocean of unmeasurable space and time and magic and monsters. He has knowledge, but no ability to use it. He has strength, but what is determination and willpower in the face of _myths_ and _legends_?

 

Help him?

  
“ _Please_ ,” he chokes out, and Drey _smiles_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! im back yall, here with another update  
> this one was tough. ive been busy and im not very proud of this chapter but ummmm oh well!  
> thanks for reading, yall
> 
> edit: 02/19/19  
> thanks to some sharp-eyed commenters, i've fixed a few minor flaws! also, Drey's brother is now 'Haku', because somebody (@mortalcreator) keeps thinking of a blond revolutionary whenever they read 'Sabo'. so, Haku is born!

**Author's Note:**

> um, i hope that went okay? im just as uncertain about this as you are, undoubtedly. constructive criticism welcome! thanks for reading!


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